A Dark-Hearted Rebellion: Les Miserables
by AtomicArtifice
Summary: The students at the Academie de Paris have been biting and kicking for a revolution. Now that the time is finally at hand, some of our favorite Les Miserables characters, including Marius, Enjolras, Grantaire, and others, rise to the challenge and accept the call to war.


_May 19, 1831 Marius Pontmercy; Journal, Academie de Paris_

_Today I left my notebook in her father's garden. The notebook I filled with fears, hopes and dreams. All day I've been pondering what she thought of it, and whether she has figured out that I was one who left it for her. I can't get that face out of my mind! All I want now is to know her name. I know she saw me waiting for her at the gardens, so why did she not appear the following weeks? What a pit of despair I've fallen into, and how can I escape? Lately, I've been spending more time with Courfeyrac's gang. What a bunch of rebels they are, rebels who make emotional speeches and get slobbering drunk and seemed to be accompanied by a different woman each time I see them. They no nothing of my struggles—_

The wooden door of the café shuttered and Enjolras clambered in, shoulders back with a look of triumph on his handsome face. Grantaire stumbled in after him, drunk as ever. I quickly covered my journal with my sleeve, not wanting them to glimpse my writings. The others often teased me about keeping a log; they assumed it was a sort of diary, and that only sissies and half-educated women kept diaries.

Enjolras' eyes darted around the room. He knew almost every one at the Academie's eastern branch, but for some reason chose to spend his time with us, the friends of the ABC café, a group of misfit revolutionaries that didn't get particularly good grades and had nothing better to do than stir up trouble.

There are a whole lot of us, me (Marius, if you hadn't guessed), Courfeyrac, Comberferre, Feuilly, Bahorel, Lesgles (but we call him Bossuet), Grantaire and our fearless leader, Enjolras. I really don't bother one way or another about the revolution you see, but my best friend Courfeyrac does. And I support him in all of his endeavors.

Anyway, when Enjolras saw me, he came over to sit down at my lonely table. Grantaire followed like a dog. Grantaire is usually depressed and is extremely cynical, but he clings to Enjolras like a life raft. Enjolras, his best friend, is his beacon of hope in a dark and unforgiving world. Enjolras gave me a look, an excited look that means either 'Watch out—I have a plan for a new student uprising' or 'I have a great new idea for how to stir up trouble with the district Inspector'. Whichever it was, it wasn't good.

"Marius, my friend, Marius," he began, talking slowly and seriously, with a purpose, "You would not believe what just happened to me. You wouldn't believe it! Inspiration, Marius, for a new student uprising!"

See? I told you. Grantaire caught my eye and gave me an incredulous stare, obviously meaning, 'Help, my dearest companion is a raving lunatic!' I closed the cover of my journal.

"You did, did you?" I responded dryly.

"Marius, my boy, I see no passion in your eyes! Lighten up!" he sighed. "Is this slum you're in . . . is it about that girl you met at Lumexbourg?"

I nodded gravely, sliding my notebook into my lap. I just couldn't get that woman out of my mind! Courfeyrac was always telling me how obsessive I was.

"Forget her," he encouraged, "Love isn't important. You need to think about real-world issues, issues that men face. War, revolution, Marius!" He grabbed the journal I was trying so desperately to hide. "Get your head out of the clouds." He tossed my journal to Grantaire, who smiled wickedly and turned a few pages.

"The friends of the ABC has another meeting," he explained, "Tonight. I'll tell you then." He turned to Grantaire. "Give the kid his book back."

Grantaire tossed me my journal, which I barely caught, before he stood up and followed Enjolras past a flock of blushing waitresses and out the café's wooden doors. Enjolras was like that, his conversations brief, walking around like he had somewhere to be. But I knew better, none of us Academie boys had ever had a real job, or wanted one. I reopened my journal. Now where was I . . .

_They no nothing of my struggles, the constant fits of depression that I battle day and night. This girl is all I want. I find myself constantly daydreaming about her . . . Perhaps she is named Belle, or Jeanette, or Melanie'. Perhaps she likes to paint, or play the flute, or bake cakes for her father. Who knows? I do not, but I long to know. I think I shall return to her doorstep tomorrow or later today, and see if she has read my previous journal that I left for her. What shall I say if she has? Should I tell her my name before or after I pronounce my undying love? No, now you are just being stupid, Marius. Whatever shall become of me? Will I ever be a proper man, and stop tripping over my own feet with blind love? Well, tomorrow I will see. If I can wait that long._

_May 20, 1832 Marius Pontmercy; Journal, Academie de Paris_

_Ah, my heart soars today. I returned to the young woman's garden yesterday eve and we conversed for the first time since I met her at Luxembourg. Cosette—that was her name. She likes to read, like me, and admire the gardens. I'm still in awe. Her father is extremely over-protective, so we may have to consider meeting only in secret. If Enjolras lets me out at all. In fact, I'm sitting in the café as we speak, listening to him rant about revolution or something. The longer I sit here the more I wish I were out with Cosette._

I glanced up to find Courfeyrac glaring at me. All right, I was preoccupied, but he didn't have to get so mad. Courfeyrac was my best friend by far—he was also my roommate. We shared everything, furniture, secrets, jokes, money. Well, he provided the money, and I did the sharing. Courfeyrac was the only boy I knew with a real job. He was taller and bigger than me, with wavy blonde hair and childish green eyes, and he was quite popular with the ladies. Probably because he had money. But I knew his secret—one girl, that he'd had his eye on since we got into the Academie, a pretty little thing called Emilie.

She was as small as they come, about the height of my shoulders (and I was considered short), with silky black hair and thick eyebrows. Her eyes shone green like the glossy grasses of spring-time, or so Courfeyrac described her to me. I think Emilie is as plain as a pigeon next to Cosette. Ah, I haven't described her to you yet. She is tall, but I like that in a woman. Her hair is golden like the morning sun, and curvy like that grass in a wheat field, and her blue eyes are as elegant and shiny as the stillness of the pond on a winter morning. But here I go again, me and my similes.

Anyway, Courfeyrac looked upset, so I closed my journal and leaned back in my chair, preparing myself for another boring speech about human rights.

"The time is near—so near, it's stirring the blood in our vanes. The government must succumb to our will, our statement will be heard if only the students and people rise together and demand to be heard!" Enjolras shouted, standing tall on top of a rickety café table. I listened for several minutes, until the bells of the café door rattled and in walked my other good friend—Eponine.

Eponine was my best-friend-outside-of-school, my other right hand man (or woman, in this case), my helper and support beam. She was always by my side, willing to lend a hand. Unlike Cosette or Emilie, she was not what one would call pretty. Eponine had a large head, large hands and feet and enormous brown eyes, though her body was small and extremely thin. Her long hair was an average brown, but often so dirty it didn't reveal it's true color. Her lips were bright red, and the second-largest feature on her face. She wore a pale blue beret, and a long brown overcoat over a short, tattered white dress. She either wore thin slippers or no shoes at all, for her family was as poor as dirt. Eponine, however, was one of the kindest (if least womanly) girls I had ever met.

Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and I was excited to see her too. I wanted her to do me a favor.

"Marius," she pranced over to my side, "C'mon, take a break from this junkyard. Come out with me." Courfeyrac glanced at me again, but seemed to be saying, 'lucky, you've got an excuse to leave'. I got up with her, and left as quietly and unnoticeably as possible. I took a deep breath once we were outside. Fresh Paris air, ah.

"Marius, look at me," she pouted, "Stop dreaming. Say something amusing, I'm upset." Maybe if she was upset, it wasn't a good time to ask for a favor. But I really needed it done.

"Eponine," I tried to sound as innocent as possible, "Would you do me a favor?"

"A favor! Ha, that's a good one."

"No, I mean really." I shuffled around in my pockets, looking for my package. I finally pulled out a pale red envelope, the words, 'For Cosette' written in swirly letters on the front.

"I need you to take this letter to Cosette. She lives in the garden cottage at the Rue de Plumet."

"You want me delivering your love letters?" she whined, "Fine. I will, but you owe me." She swiped the envelope, and angrily shoved it in her overcoat pocket. She then turned down a street I had never taken before and ran. She must know ten thousand shortcuts to every house in Paris. The girl was definitely street-wise.

Having nothing better to do, I opened the door to the café, and peered inside. Enjolras was still on the table, delivering inspiring words to the friends of the ABC.

"So the date is set. June, the new month of triumph!" The students cheered as Enjolras continued, "Our barricade will be built, and weapons will be exchanged. The government will pay homage to the power of the people!"

A barricade? That was the worst idea I'd heard in a long time. And somehow, I was a part of it.

"Wait a second—what just happed?" I pulled Courfeyrac aside as the friends of the ABC dispersed into a crowd of café-goers.

"You wouldn't miss so much if you'd quit ducking out with Eponine," he answered in a mocking tone, "What happened to your garden romance, Cosette?"

"Stop it, Courfeyrac. What'd you guys just decide?"

"We're building a barricade. In June, to ignite the revolution. First attack on the authorities."

"What?"

"You heard me!"

I had heard him, but I wanted to pretend I hadn't. I wasn't good with a gun, and I'd never shoot a man, especially an officer. I couldn't fight. I couldn't. I didn't say anything more, merely tucked my writing journal under my arm and hastened outside, eager to return to my apartment. Unfortunately, Courfeyrac would be there almost as soon as I would. Maybe I'd stop by _de Sabots_, the Academie's second most popular café. I trotted down the nearest brick avenue, through a shortcut Eponine had shown me, and to the door of _de Sabots_. I hauled it open.

_De Sabots_, 'the wooden shoe' was smaller and damper than the 'ABC café', and was home to the lower end of the Academie community. Poorer students and society's social outcasts hung around there, along with some dangerous cliques that were best not to mess with. Grantaire often hung around in _de Sabots _when he wasn't with us, and I spotted him as I opened the door. He was leaning against the back wall, smoking a small cigar. He didn't look drunk (which was rather surprising), but he looked depressed. I figured I might as well cheer him up.

"_Salut_," I muttered, walking over to join him, "You alright?"

He puffed a plume of smoke. "Not really," he replied, "But who cares?"

"What's wrong then?"

He puffed some more smoke in my face.

"None of your business, little bookworm," Grantaire said, "But I'll tell you if you buy me a drink." I fingered the coins in my pocket. I had about enough money to buy an apple.

"No way. Buy your own liquor."

"I don't got any money."

"Neither do I!"

"Leave, then."

I didn't leave, only joined him leaning wearily against the wall. Grantaire's arms were folded determinedly across his chest, and his eyes were locked on something across the room. I followed his gaze. He was watching a girl from the slums, a youngster, about seventeen. I believe her name was Juliette.

Juliette was as wild as a tiger, with a knack for partying, drinking and dancing. She was loud and obnoxious (somewhat scary to me), but as beautiful as day. Her hair was a chestnut reddish-brown, and her eyes were a similar color. Her nose and cheeks were sprinkled with freckles, which added to her overall grungy look. She was the perfect girl for Grantaire, I thought, though she scared most of the other guys half to death. She could probably arm-wrestle them to death as well.

"Thinking about Juliette?" I questioned.

Grantaire heaved a sigh. "Yeah, but what good will it do? We're all going to die at the barricades anyway."

"Don't be so grim," I argued.

"Well it's true! Enjolras doesn't have a clue what he's doing. We're all going to die out there."

There was a moment of silence. He was probably right—Enjolras wasn't aiming to get us killed, he was just trying to make a statement. But what did we know? We were just a bunch of white boys from rich families trying to make our mark on the world. And some of us were willing to die for it.

I drifted back to reality. "Better ask her out before you die, then."

He looked at me like I was insane. "Are you kidding? She'd either kiss me to death or bash my head in. Either way, I wouldn't last long."

"C'mon," I argued, "Take a chance."

"Says mister 'never leaves the house except to buy ink so he can write'."

That was pretty much true. I needed to buy some ink right now, but my entire stash consisted of the measly coins inside my pocket, so I'd wait. I pulled out the last remaining ink in the bottle I always carried and my pen. I unfolded my journal cover. Grantaire glanced lazily at me.

"You know what?" he asked, "I'll make you a bet. If you think we've got a chance, then you'll take it."

"What then?"

"If more than half the guys in our uprising die, you owe me five francs. More than half survive, I owe you. How 'bout it?"

"It's terrible to be betting on people's lives like that."

"Oh, suck it up, pretty boy."

"What if you die?"

"Then that'll suck for me," he snickered. "C'mon Marius, I'm not going to die."

I took his bet, hoping he was wrong. But not because of the money, because I was trying to keep hope alive. The hope that we could really pull this thing off.


End file.
